Harry Potter and the Brothers of Anubis
by Discarnate
Summary: Ten years after the downfall of Voldemort, a new cult arises from Egypt claiming to know the secret of resurrection  and intend to use it to raise the Dark Lord. With Harry gone, who does the Ministry turn to now to stop them before it's too late?


_AN: Wow, another Harry Potter fic! I've been estranged from Harry Potter fanfiction for FAR too long (I used to, in another lifetime, be part of Wyvern's Elucidated Brethren). I haven't read any in a long while, so if this has already been done I apologise, but a plot bunny bit me and, well, you know what plot bunnies are like..._

_WARNING for future slash. It's a long time coming, but better to be forewarned I say. Then you can't moan at me when it happens and say I didn't warn you ._

_Full summary: __**It is now almost a decade since Harry Potter sacrificed himself to defeat Lord Voldemort. The wizarding world has enjoyed peace ever since. However, rumours are spreading about an Egyptian cult, who claim to have discovered the Darkest magic of all – how to raise someone from the dead. With news that the cult is spreading to Britain and that its followers will use that magic to resurrect Lord Voldemort, who can the Minister turn to in order to stop them – before it's too late? **_

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It was long past midnight, but sleep was a long way off. The young man bent over the crackling, ancient scroll, his lips moving as his eyes skimmed the ancient hieroglyphs. After a few minutes he sighed and rubbed his gritty eyes before running his hands through his thick, wiry black hair. Then he pulled his notebook towards him and chewed the end of his pen thoughtfully. He stared once more at the passage he'd just read and then carefully copied it down. He hesitated before picking up the ancient scroll again. It had been a long day... Maybe he'd go to bed now, and begin again tomorrow when he was fresh...

"How goes it, Belash?" Belash looked up to face the speaker, stood just in the shadows. The man was wearing heavy black robes, a hood pulled up over his head. Only his eyes showed, glittering in the candlelight.

"Slowly, Master," replied Belash, masking his surprise at the sudden appearance of the man. "The dialect is all but forgotten, and some of these hieroglyphs can have several meanings. I am sure I can translate it accurately, though," he added quickly, as his master frowned and took a step forward. The light threw his sharp, angular features into prominence; the shadow cast on the wall reminded Belash of a devil.

"You must have this finished by the week's end," his master hissed. "You know the importance of the dates. I do not want to wait three months to try this again."

"It will be done, Master," Belash promised, turning his attention once more to his work. "Just one question, Master. Why Latin? It is only another dead language."

"It is not as dead as you think." With that cryptic reply the master left the room as silently as he entered. Belash hardly noticed, so focused was he on the translation. He worked with a renewed vigour, all trace of tiredness forgotten. Now that he thought of it, sleep wasn't -that- important, not when compared to the possibility of incurring his master's wrath.

Two days later he was stood with his master on the outskirts of the ruins of an ancient city. He hadn't wanted to come, fearing the demons that were said to stalk the city at night, but he would rather face unknown demons – provided they didn't actually go into the city, that is – than face his master when he was angry. His master was clothed in the same heavy black robes he always wore, seemingly impervious to the desert heat; Belash was sweating and he was wearing just a simple white tunic. The setting sun was turning the landscape an eerie, blood red and Belash shivered as he looked up at the weathered, broken statue of a long-dead Pharaoh, his blank gaze seemingly focused on Belash. He swallowed heavily, casting a nervous glance towards the lengthening shadows and thinking longingly of home.

"Relax, Belash. Nothing that is here will hurt you." The sudden, deep voice of his master startled him and he started, losing his footing and sprawling onto the sand.

"I-I'm sorry, Master," Belash stammered. "I just... my mother told me stories of the demons, and I have no wish to have my eyes sucked out of my head."

"There are no demons here," said his master, sounding amused. That's what you think, thought Belash mutinously, shivering despite the heat. You're a soft Westerner. You know nothing of this land. "You don't believe me? I can show you. Come with me." Without waiting for a response, the master turned and walked into the ruins. Panic rose in Belash's throat as his master disappeared. He hesitated, torn between a desire to stay outside the city in relative safety and his obligation to protect his master.

"Belash!" called his master impatiently and, deciding that an angry master who was here was worse than the fear of demons who hadn't yet shown up, he hurried inside the city walls.

He reached the gateway just in time to see his master disappear through a wall. Belash blinked in surprise. It must be the heat playing tricks on me, he decided. Nobody could walk through walls! He took a swig of water from the canteen strapped to his side, rubbed his eyes, walked over to the wall and slapped it. It was unyielding, and he hurt his hand. There was no possible way anyone could have walked through that! It must have been an illusion, he decided – and no sooner had he thought that than his master walked back through the wall. Belash yelled and jumped back, clutching at his heart.

"How did you do that?" he demanded, all protocol forgotten in the moment of fright.

"Easy. I am a wizard," replied his master, sounding amused. "This city was built by wizards. This building," he indicated the wall he'd just walked through, "was the entrance to a meeting place for wizards."

"Wizards?" Belash snorted in disbelief. "Forgive me, Master, but I do not believe in party tricks and illusions."

"We do not deal in party tricks and illusions. Magic is real, Belash, very real indeed. You will see for yourself later, I hope – provided that your translation is accurate."

"Of course it's accurate," said Belash, feeling a stab of annoyance at having his skills called into question. "I spent two whole weeks translating it. I am the best interpreter in the country."

"Then, if you are right, you will see magic done tonight," said his master calmly.

"Huh. It's all nonsense, anyway," muttered Belash. "No-one can call a soul back from the Vale of the Dead. They have passed on. Why would they want to come back?"

"She will come back," said his master, a cold, hard edge to his voice; for a moment, Belash was fearful that he had gone too far. "She will want to come back, to be by my side again..." The master's voice shook slightly, but Belash paid no attention. Nightfall was almost here, and the lengthening shadows were giving the city an eerie feel to it.

"So if what you say is true and wizards built the city, did the wizards conjure the demons?" asked Belash nervously, trying to avoid looking too closely at the shadows in case he saw something he didn't want to see.

"No. There were no real demons. Only wizards. They told the Muggles that there were demons here so that they would stay away."

"How did the city get destroyed?" asked Belash. "Couldn't the wizards rebuild it?"

"There was a battle... It is not important," said his master, waving his hands dismissively. "What was important was that the city's secret should never be discovered."

"And what was that secret?" asked Belash, interested now despite himself.

"Secret," laughed his master. "So secret that even I did not know, until I came across a mention of his place in my studies. It has taken me seven years to find it. Do you know how hard it is to find a mythical city? Most of the writings I came across were frustratingly vague, and those who know its whereabouts try to pretend it doesn't exist because they're scared of the demons – like you. Do you know what it was called?" Belash shrugged.

"I just know it as the demon city," he replied.

"Qarafa." Belash's eyes widened.

"The City of the Dead?" he queried. "Why?"

"It is here I found the scrolls," continued the master, ignoring the question. "They were buried deep beneath a shrine, in a heavy sarcophagus with many difficult and dangerous enchantments surrounding it. I thought, for something to be that protected it had to be important... It took me nearly three months to crack all the enchantments but I did it..."

"If they were so well hidden how did you find it?" asked Belash.

"Magic always leaves a trace," replied the master. "And as to why Qarafa? You will see soon. The others are here." He pointed towards the gateway; a man in black robes stained bronze by the sand was struggling towards them with a large, bulky object wrapped in linen over his shoulder.

"Greetings, brother!" said the man, offering a tight smile. He was thinner than the master, his small brown eyes darting nervously from side to side as though he expected an ambush at any time.

"Welcome to Qarafa, brother," said the master. "It is almost time. How is she?" he asked, indicating the bundle.

"She is well – as well as a corpse can be," said the master's brother. "I have to keep renewing the spell every seven hours, you know. I'll be glad not to have to do that anymore – if this works."

"It will work," whispered the master, reaching out as if to touch the bundle, but he thought better of it and lowered his hand again. Without a further word to Belash the two brothers moved deeper into the city; with a shrug and a sigh he followed, keeping close just in case his master was wrong about the demons.

Belash followed them into a tumble-down temple dedicated to Anubis, the jackal-headed god of the dead. An altar was lying slightly skewed underneath a statue of the god, which still seemed remarkably whole despite the destruction elsewhere in the city. The master's brother lay the bundle down on the altar and slowly, reverentially, unwrapped it. The bundle turned out to be a woman, pale and black-haired, with a thin mouth and a slightly gaunt face. She was beautiful, thought Belash, but even he could see that she was clearly dead. The master seemed enamoured with her, stroking her brow tenderly. Strange people, these Westerners, Belash mused.

"Lift the spell," ordered the master, his voice slightly hoarse all of a sudden. His brother removed what looked like a stick to Belash from a hidden pocket, muttered something under his breath, and the body of the woman was suddenly surrounded in a glowing white light, which was sucked into the stick.

"Impressive. What was that?" asked the master casually.

"A temporal shift spell I discovered. It has kept time constant around the body, preventing it from decaying," replied his brother. "Are you sure this will work?"

"It will," replied the master confidently, taking out a stick of his own. The last rays of the sun disappeared below the horizon and he turned to the statue above the altar.

"It is time," he said, taking out the translation that Belash had done for him. He started chanting the words in a low monotone, and Belash felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise as an eerie wind blew about the temple. The masters voice rose in volume and crescendo and the wind got stronger and stronger; Belash thought he could see a black shape swirling around Anubis, so fast that he couldn't make it out. A pressure was building up in his head and the air took on a musty, dry feel, like that found in ancient tombs. Finally the master flourished his wand and emitted a loud, low growl that reverberated around Belash's head so much that he felt it was going to crack.

The black shape stopped dancing around the statue of the god and dropped into the woman, who gave a sudden, great gasp of breath and sat up. The master dropped to his knees, apparently overcome, as she looked around her with wild, frightened eyes, her breath coming in ragged pants.

"Where am I?" she demanded, her voice, though hoarse, clipped and patrician.

"You're back in the world, my lady," replied the master's brother. She looked up at him in confusion.

"I should know you... but it's been so long..." she muttered, raising her hand to his cheek. The master groaned, crawled on his knees over to her, and grasped her free hand.

"It is good to have you back. So good!" he said, in a voice thick with emotion. He threw back his hood, shaking out his greying, dark brown hair before pressing her hand to his lips.

"You... I know you too..." she said, biting her lip as she fought to remember.

"It will come, my lady," said the master's brother. "You have been... away... for a long time. What do you remember?"

"I remember... There was a battle. And suddenly everything was grey, and there were monsters by the road. It was very strange," replied the woman. "And I remember..." She trailed off, looking thoughtful.

"You remember?" prompted the master, grasping her hand tight as though he would never let it go again.

"I remember my name," she said proudly. She smiled suddenly, a smile that chilled Belash much more than the thought of demons and the fact that he'd just seen a woman brought back to life. It was a smile without humour; cold, heartless and cruel. It was the smile of one who would smash the world to get her own way. Realising that his master was too wrapped up in the woman to notice if he left, Belash hurried for the door.

"What is your name?" asked the master's brother softly.

"Bellatrix. Bellatrix Lestrange." The name seemed to echo around Belash's head as he ran out of the temple, across the now-dark ruins of the city and out into the desert. He didn't know what it was about that woman that scared him so. All he knew was that he had to get far, far away from here...


End file.
